Insomniacs Anonymous
by Erikthephantom07
Summary: Not too long ago – Paris – Sorbonne – 0157 hours. A late night meandering causes Bruce to stumble upon a group calling themselves Insomniacs Anonymous. Rated T for sensitive discussion. Features Harvey Dent. No Pairings. Reviews are appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

**Insomniacs Anonymous**

Not too long ago – Paris – Sorbonne – 0157 hours

It had been more than a decade since his parents were gunned down in an alleyway, and Bruce Wayne still had trouble sleeping. He was in the middle of one of his usual university stints, wherein he spent a semester at a university of his choice, decided he didn't like it, failed his classes, and dropped out. That approach had garnered him something of an adverse reputation and had enabled him to see the sights of Europe.

The nice thing about European universities, aside from the location and their distance from Gotham, was that most people didn't recognize him. As Bruce wandered the mostly deserted halls of the Sorbonne's dormitory at two in the morning, he relished this anonymity and the chance to be completely alone. At this time of night, the students were either out to a bar or in their rooms.

His wanderings weren't aimless, however. As always when he couldn't sleep, Bruce watched television: news, prime time news, special reports. Everything that someone his age usually ignored. The only TV in the dorm so far was the one in the communal lounge.

The lounge was illuminated by a large street lamp, its orange light barely filtering through the dingy windows. The large windows were on the far wall, lined by four worn couches which further dimmed the outside glow. It wasn't until he identified the second source of lighting that Bruce realized that he was not alone. A television set, mounted to the wall near the door, stabbed the muted orange lighting of the room with streaks of blue, purple, and white.

Five of the six couches of the large room were occupied, one student on each. The TV on the wall was playing Parisian news with the volume low and on the couch facing it, in the middle of the room, was a blonde student, around the same age as Bruce, flipping a coin.

He noticed Bruce before the latter had a chance to make a hasty retreat.

"Hi!" he said cheerfully, his voice cutting into the gloom and his eyes making a quick survey of the newcomer. "Welcome to Insomniacs Anonymous," he chuckled, his voice just a little hoarse from fatigue. When Bruce didn't respond, the coin-flipper shook his head with a laugh. "I'm so stupid," he muttered, "_Salut! Bienvenue a…a_…Tubbs, d'you know how to say 'insomniac' in French?"

"I'm not…" Bruce snapped, the blonde haired student looking back at him. "I understand you."

"A fellow American!" The blonde kid smiled, tossing the coin into the air again, its metallic surface catching the light from the TV. "Welcome. We're mostly American in here, too. Apparently Europeans are never haunted by demons...or maybe they just don't buy into group therapy. Who knows?"

Bruce didn't, and he also didn't buy into group therapy. His eyes flickered to the TV as he backed out of the room.

"You going to sleep?" The blonde asked nonchalantly.

"Mm-hmm."

"Sure…" the blonde said sarcastically, tossing the coin again. "Look, pal, nobody randomly takes a walk in a dorm. You're either on your way to a bar, going to the bathroom, or can't sleep. So which is it?"

"Bathroom," Bruce stated, continuing to leave.

"Wrong way, genius," the blonde chuckled and turned back to the TV.

"What do you care where I'm going?" Bruce asked, his frustration mounting.

"I don't," the other stated casually, flipping the coin.

Bruce stood tensed with indecision in the double doorway. He didn't want to return to his room but he was dying to see what was on the news. He glanced back down the hall at his door, weighing his options.

"Ooh, double homicide," the blonde said to himself, readjusting himself on the couch.

"Where?" Bruce asked, his pride lost to his curiosity.

"Gare du Nord," the blonde responded, suppressing a smirk.

"Gangs, probably," Bruce mumbled, forgetting that he wasn't alone. "Damn."

"You interested in crime?" the blonde asked.

"Interested in stopping it," Bruce allowed curtly, his gaze still transfixed on the screen. "Looks accidental," again to himself.

"Yeah, me too," the blonde nodded. "You going for law enforcement or straight-up law?"

Bruce glanced down at him, annoyed at the continued intrusion. "Law enforcement."

"Gotham needs more law enforcement," the blonde said carefully.

"Yes she does," Bruce agreed solemnly, and then realized he'd been caught.

The blonde didn't even try to hide the grin. "Sorry," he apologized insincerely, his smile widening. "Recognized your accent as a fellow Gothamite's."

"You're from Gotham?" Bruce asked, the story having switched to a Paris metro strike.

"Born and bred," the blonde said proudly. "Gotham County middle and high school and now GU. Name's Harvey," he added, sticking out his hand. Bruce simply regarded it, offering a grunt by way of his name.

"Take a seat," Harvey offered, gesturing towards the TV with his outstretched hand, "the French equivalent of 20/20's gonna be replayed in a minute."

Bruce literally grabbed the last free couch and pulled it over to Harvey – but only because he wanted to see the television. Unfortunately the program had ended and they were watching a commercial for _Fanta_ soda.

"What brought you to Paris?" Harvey asked by way of small talk. "I'm here for study abroad," he smiled when he received no response. "I've got LSATs in July and I'm told junior year is the last year to enjoy yourself. So I'm enjoying myself. Besides, GU has a pretty good financial aid system for study abroad."

Bruce grunted.

Harvey gave a nervous laugh. "I know. How big of an idiot am I, right?" He stared up at the TV, tossing his coin. "But, hey – there are different ways to enforce the law, both equally important."

When the knock-off 20/20 began, both Harvey and Bruce were quiet, watching the program with an intensity not usually found in men so young. Harvey, however, was more vocal in his disgust with the criminal goings-on of Paris, shaking his head or muttering angrily to himself. Bruce simply watched stoically, his mouth set in a firm line.

During another commercial break, Bruce took a closer look at his surroundings. There was Harvey, of course, who absent-mindedly flipped his coin every two seconds or so, but there were also four other students, each minding their own business. Their respective couches were pushed up against the far wall.

"Interested in I.A.'s roster?" Harvey asked quietly with another small smile, though this one more genuine. "It's rough stuff." Harvey rested an arm on the back of the couch, pointing towards a plump kid furthest from them. "Tubbs McGee – rude, I know, but I don't know his name and he calls himself Tubbs – he woke up one night with the babysitter standing over his bed." Harvey's eyes darkened, the smile gone. "Doesn't do a whole lot of sleeping anymore. Or anything, for that matter."

"All because he was scared by the babysitter?" Bruce asked, finally breaking his silence. Tubbs was picking at the fabric of the couch as if it were his job.

Harvey stared at Bruce, his disbelief apparent. "Not quite," he allowed, an edge in his voice. "Babysitter was working right out of the Cauldron. Seems like Mr. and Mrs. Tubbs McGee were behind on their payments to the laddies of the Irish mob. Won't be missing a payment again."

Bruce wasn't even sure where the Cauldron was in Gotham. He'd spent most of his short life trying to erase Gotham from memory.

"And her?" he indicated a young girl who was gazing aimlessly out the window behind her.

"The usual late-night Gotham horror story," Harvey sighed. "Shift ended at 2, walking home alone because her boyfriend didn't feel like bringing the car around, probably too drunk to remember he even had a girlfriend. Well, you know those thugs in the East End. When the GCPD found her, they didn't think she'd make it. But she did. Physically, at least."

Bruce stared at her. The East End was near where his parents had been killed.

"Roy over there," Harvey continued, gesturing with his thumb behind him, "he woke up for a glass of milk to find the dog dead in the kitchen."

Bruce furrowed his brow. "It's just a dog."

"Some people like dogs," Harvey said with more of an edge to his voice. "Besides, when he went to tell his parents about the dog he got more than he bargained for. Turns out it was a suicide-homicide – double homicide if you count the dog. Dad didn't have the guts to go after Roy.

"Lastly," Harvey finished, "we have Sally. Don't know why she's here but I'd bet the prosthetic arm has something to do with it."

"Why don't you just ask her?" Bruce wondered gruffly.

"I didn't ask any of them," Harvey stated, stifling a yawn and flipping his coin. "They told me, except Sal. That's what group therapy is – you share stories and talk about your problems. Sometimes it helps."

"So I.A. is official?"

Harvey laughed. "No. I just call it that to avoid embarrassment. We're just a bunch of people who sit around and don't sleep."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Harvey retorted in an off-hand manner, but his eyes were boring holes into the television screen he hadn't been watching a minute before. When Bruce didn't answer, Harvey turned back with another of his false smiles. "Why am I part of I.A., you mean? I bleed caffeine," he replied with a shrug, turning to face the TV. "Couldn't sleep if I wanted to."

They sat in silence, the TV blinking meaninglessly before them. Bruce knew he wasn't paying attention and he figured Harvey wasn't either. Gotham had effectively ruined the lives of those six students (he counted Harvey; the city built cafes when it should have built food banks) forever.

"How can you be proud of Gotham?" Bruce wondered aloud, his own voice taking on a hard edge. "How can you be proud of a city that's destroyed so many lives?"

"Do I look like a mass murderer or underworld overlord to you?" Harvey asked, and Bruce blinked at him. "Didn't think so. I look like a future criminal lawyer, or the guy who hands you your groceries and wishes you a good day on six bucks an hour. People are people and they make choices. We can't blame where we're from. Sure, Gotham has a lot of problems. Big problems. But there's still good there. There're millions of people who just live their day-to-day lives. And sometimes, some of those day-to-day types get off their respective asses and do something." Bruce couldn't help but think of his parents and the good that they had done.

"What I'm saying is that I love my city, even with her faults. It provides us with the chance to do some good in this world and to prevent future meetings of Insomniacs Anonymous," he finished with a wry chuckle and a flip of his coin. "What time is it?" he asked suddenly.

"2:21," Bruce answered, his own voice a little hoarse.

"Whoops!" Harvey laughed, straightening up. "That's my cue."

Bruce looked at him quizzically.

"Sleep, of course. D'you have any idea what time it is?"

Bruce furrowed his brow, surveying Harvey as if he were crazy.

"I have a system," Harvey said conspiratorially, swinging his sweatpantsed legs over the side of the couch. "Everyone needs some sleep, right? I get two hours – I go under at 2:22 exactly and get back up at 4:22 exactly."

"Why?" Bruce was forced to ask.

"Cos I only need about 8 minutes to get ready and at 4:30, the cafes open and I can juice up for another day," he grinned. "See you later?" he asked, obviously not expecting an affirmative reply.

Bruce grunted noncommittally.

"'Night, I.A.," he called as he made to leave.

"Night, Harv," four quiet voices called back, accompanied by a wave from Tubbs.

Harvey lingered in the doorway for a moment, the only sound the gentle hum of the TV and the metallic ring of the coin flipping through the air. "Night, Bruce."

Bruce looked up with surprise as Harvey caught the last flip of the coin, a knowing smile on his face. When he was gone, Bruce stared through the television, its flickering lights illuminating his furrowed brow.


	2. Chapter 2

Not too long ago – Paris – Sorbonne – 04:41

No matter where he was, in what city, university, or backwater town, people were faceless. Even on those rare occasions that he was forced to make eye contact – such as with the chancellor of the university informing him that calling his grades 'slipping' was the understatement of the century – he still only saw a blur. There were only a few people in the world able to show up 'on his radar,' as he thought of it and most if not all of them (Mr. Earl might be on a business trip, for example) were located in Gotham.

The unfortunate thing about having a long, potentially important discussion with someone at 2:21 in the morning was that, afterwards, they cease to be just another faceless person. Bruce almost wondered how he'd never seen Harvey Dent before. The semester had only begun three weeks ago and already Harvey was a prominent face in the Latin Quarter of Paris.

He was the founder of the _Gotham University Foreign Press_, a European affiliate with GU's state-side newspaper. The Americans loved him because he was a source of comfort in a strange city, and the French loved him because he was smart, funny and, while customarily loud like the other Americans, his accent during drama rehearsals was "_tres adorable._" He was just as involved with the Sorbonne as if he were a native.

Harvey had gone to bed at 2:22 the night before and, by 3:23, Bruce had learned all that there was to know about Harvey Dent through various sources at various bars: GU junior and future law student. Phi Kappa Phi, Phi Alpha Theta, Golden Key International, this guy was a member of all of the real honor societies and was a sure bet for Phi Beta Kappa and summa cum laude. Vice president of the Pre-Law Society and Students Against Poverty, regularly seen on the GU Masquers' stage, humble employee of GU's Telefund.

Damn.

By 3:37 Bruce decided that he didn't like the obnoxious American, and at 4:27 he waited in the _Café du George_,the closest to the dormitory, for said obnoxious American. Why he was waiting was clear – Bruce wanted to find a fault with the seemingly perfect, all around good guy who was Harvey Dent. Everyone had a bad side, everyone had secrets. Bruce had no intention of exposing these secrets, of course, but it would make him feel better.

At 4:42 Harvey entered the café looking a little disheveled. Harvey had said that he entered the café at 4:30 every morning. Something was wrong. Bruce logged that into the back of his mind as he watched Harvey run a hand through his dark blonde hair. It fell back into place before his red-rimmed, dark-circled eyes that stared through the café menu. Something was definitely wrong.

Harvey's fingers were unconsciously picking at his left sleeve. "_Bon matin_, Arr-vee," the waiter behind the counter called cheerfully. "_Votre boisson habituelle, je présume_?"

Three weeks in and he already had a "usual."

Harvey swallowed, blinked a few times, and finally saw the waiter. "Huh?" he said, seeming to force his voice back to the present time. "Oh, hi, Pierre, how are you this morning?"

"Too tired for français, Arr-vee?" the waiter chuckled, fixing a small café lait.

"_Désolé_, Pierre. Late night."

"Ah, you do not have to tell this to me, Arr-vee, I was once young."

"You're still young, Pierre, don't kid yourself," Harvey smiled. Bruce noted that it didn't reach his eyes. He smiled like a politician.

Coffee in hand, Harvey slumped down at a nearby table, tossing a large book on the surface. Instead of opening it, he placed his cup on top of it, staring into the swirling liquid, one hand fidgeting with his collar. For someone who bled caffeine it was surprising that he was letting his coffee get cold.

The café was mostly deserted at 4:45, it having just opened at 4:30. Unfortunately for Bruce, that meant that when Harvey looked up from his reverie, he saw him immediately, despite Bruce's quick duck behind a newspaper.

"Hey, Bruce!" said fake Harvey, forcing a smile. Bruce was surprised (and happy) to see that Harvey didn't want to talk to him just as much as Bruce didn't want to talk to Harvey. Therefore, he grunted by way of response.

Harvey returned to staring at his coffee, obviously conscience of an audience as he at last took a sip. He opened the LSAT book, initially feigning studying. Soon enough, however, Bruce saw his brow furrow, and his shoulders hunch. Bruce took this opportunity to leave while Harvey was too preoccupied with his book.

That night, Bruce seriously considered not returning to the dorm. As extreme as that seemed, he felt more comfortable being in a place where no one knew him. He felt safe in his anonymity and the moment that was broken he felt the urge to flee. He suppressed it as always, of course. A cowardly notion. But he still could not feel comfortable. Especially since Harvey and the rest of the Insomniacs Anonymous figured that he didn't really sleep at night, would be on the floor anyway if he tried to sneak away, and were blocking his access to the news.

And so, at 1:30 that morning, Bruce had a decision to make: he could wallow away in his room or feed his obsession by venturing into the common lounge. He also made a mental note to buy a television set the next day.

His obsession betraying him yet again, Bruce wandered out to the common room at 1:33.

The television was on, but the sound was almost completely off. A quick survey of the room showed that everyone was in the same place as the night before: Tubbs was furthest, picking at the couch. East End Thug Girl was looking out her window, Roy was doing a crossword puzzle, and Sally with the prosthetic arm was watching the silent TV. Harvey was facing the TV but reading (Bruce quickly surveyed the title) A Rulebook for Arguments, muttering to himself and nodding occasionally.

Tubbs was the first to notice him, Harvey the designated spokesman displaying a habit of getting lost in his work. Bruce wondered if he'd been at it since the café.

"Evening," Tubbs said in a surprisingly gentle voice, offering a small wave of his hand.

Harvey looked up at Tubbs, a little frazzled and confused, before realizing that Tubbs wasn't talking to himself and saw Bruce. "Hi," Harvey offered, barely managing to fake a smile. Bruce saw him produce the coin he'd obviously been fidgeting with, tossing it into the air. The muttering, the compulsion to fidget with either the coin or his clothing, not to mention the insomnia, Bruce logged those away for further study. "Here for the TV?"

Bruce nodded, noticing that the couch he'd moved last night hadn't been changed. He sat down and then remembered that the sound was off. Harvey tossed him the remote without looking up, immersed again in his book.

"If you had it the whole time," Bruce began in a low growl, his brows furrowed, "Why didn't you turn it up for Sally?"

Harvey looked over at him, the politician façade replaced by true Harvey, annoyed, exhausted, and a workaholic. "She doesn't care to hear it, she just likes the images," he replied, his voice like steel. "Makes sense, I guess. Being _deaf_ and all," he added as an obvious dig. Workaholic Harvey was definitely not as friendly as Politician Harvey. Bruce may have miscalculated his initial interpretation.

"Why don't you have the captions, then?" Bruce retorted, his own anger (and maybe a _little_ fatigue) mounting.

"If she wanted them on, she could turn them on. She's just as capable as you are."

"Harvey…" came Tubbs' voice. Harvey gave a little sigh, not out of annoyance at Tubbs but with himself.

"Sorry, Tubbs."

"Didn't sleep much last night?"

Harvey's jaw clenched. "Not really. You?"

"Same as always. Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Tubbs," Harvey said curtly, fixing him with an intense glare. Bruce watched him clench his teeth together, clench his fist around the coin, briefly close his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed calmer and more controlled. "Tubbs," he began again, even his voice lighter though not in a false way, "it's called insomnia. That's why we don't sleep."

The East End Thug Girl removed headphones (which Bruce was ashamed he hadn't spotted) and turned to face them. "I actually got to bed just a little after you, Harvey. I didn't even realize it. Suddenly it was light outside. I must've been out for about five hours."

"Finally!" Harvey laughed with genuine mirth. "Maybe you'll be the first to break away from IA, Brandi. I'd bet on it."

Sally had been watching the whole proceeding carefully, Bruce noticed, looking at each speaker intensely and squinting her eyes. After Harvey spoke, she made a small noise and began signing.

No one said anything, but everyone watched her carefully, trying to deduce what she was saying. At last Bruce coughed. "She said that she dreamt in sound last night," he translated reluctantly. Sally watched his mouth and then clapped, offering him a smile.

"You can speak sign language?" Harvey blinked, also seeming to reassess his earlier impressions of Bruce.

"Just American," Bruce allowed, but remained facing Sally.

'_It's nice to have someone to talk to,'_ she signed with an appreciative smile.

'_You can read lips?'_

Sally nodded.

'_How did you learn?'_

'_By watching.'_

'_You taught yourself?'_

Sally nodded with pride.

'_Television. You should try it.'_

'_I will.'_

"That's amazing," he mouthed, and her smile widened.

"Thank you," she said aloud.

The others had watched this exchange with interest. Sally then batted her hand at him, pointing at the TV. _'Now if you'll excuse me, I'm watching this.'_

Bruce's brow lifted a little. He and Sally watched in silence. It was ten times more difficult to learn to read lips in a foreign language, but Bruce's grasp of French was nearly as good as his English and he labored through it for an hour.

At 2:21 Harvey asked the time.

"Night, I.A.," he called from the doorway.

"Night, Harv," they all chimed in unison, Sally waving.

"Poor bastard," Roy muttered when Harvey was gone.

"Why?" Bruce asked, pouncing on the question. The veteran I.A. members shared a look, and Roy shrugged. Bruce turned to Sally for help.

'_We don't ask,'_ she answered. _'When he's ready he'll tell us. Maybe he never will. You can't blame him. You never even told us your name.'_

Fair enough, Bruce shrugged, but he found it harder to concentrate when he returned to the lip reading.


End file.
